


From Lubyanka With Love

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [16]
Category: Arcobaleno selvaggio | Geheimcode: Wildgänse | Code Name: Wild Geese (1984), Intrigue (1988), The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexy Times, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: A Crossover between two previously unrelated characters (played by Martin Shaw and Lewis Collins)PLEASE DO NOT RE-POST THIS STORY ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM.
Relationships: Robin Wesley/Pytor Roskov
Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264832
Kudos: 5





	From Lubyanka With Love

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Demented Pixie and I’m a Pros fan, but that hasn’t always been my name. If you knew me as In Love With Both and you’re a friend, then you’ll already know why I left the fandom some years back. But, hey, a girl can change her mind, and I have therefore decided to re-share my Professionals fanfiction on this amazing Archive – no changes, no improvements, no alterations. I’ll be posting them just as they were written. No comments, no trolls, and no betas. Just me and my stories. I’m sharing them so that they can take their place in the archive, but I’m also sharing them for the Pros generation, for those future generations yet to discover Bodie and Doyle, and for Sandra, who has never ceased waving pompoms for all Pros fanfiction writers.  
> The following story was written by me in 2010.

From Lubyanka, With Love

By ILWB

Intrigue / Code Name Wild Geese Crossover

Roskov relaxed back in his office chair, one leg draped casually across the other as he swivelled around to look out of the window. A frozen, crisp, white Moscow stretched out before him, which wouldn’t be so bad if it was warm inside, but as usual in the vast building that was Lubyanka, it wasn’t. He lit a cigarette, partly to warm his fingers. 

“Come,” he called, in response to the brief knock at his door. 

A tall, smartly dressed man entered the room, and Roskov immediately sat up straight in his chair, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Commander Chebrikov, good morning.”

Chebrikov smiled his greeting, "Please, Pytor. Relax. May I sit?" 

“Please.” Roskov waved his hand at the spare chair. “How can I help you?”

“Ah, straight to the point, eh, my friend?”

Roskov looked a little embarrassed at his somewhat curt welcome. “I know you are a busy man,” he said, trying to explain. 

“Yes,” said Chebrikov, sighing. “That is true, these days.” He tossed a folder onto the desk before him. Roskov looked up for confirmation, and on receiving a nod of encouragement, he opened the folder, pulling out a black and white photo and a typed document. “So," continued Chebrikov, "this man is Robin Wesley, a Mercenary.” Chebrikov got up and walked to the window to look out, as Roskov studied the documents. “I dislike Mercenaries. You never quite know whose side they are on.”

“You need me to locate him?”

“No need. He is down in the holding cells now. But he is being, shall we say, uncooperative. I need to know what he is doing here.”

“I see.” Roskov stood up and joined Chebrikov at the window. “You can rely on me.”

“Yes,” said Chebrikov, the smile fading from his lips as he gazed out over the frozen landscape. “I believe I can.”

********

Roskov paused for a moment to look through the peep hole hidden in the centre of the cell door. The man seated there looked markedly different from the photograph he had just seen. In the photo, Wesley was clean shaven, smartly dressed in an expensive looking suit, with his hair lightly coiffured. Like James Bond, thought Roskov, with a wry smile on his face. 

But he couldn’t look more different now if he tried. He was dressed from head to toe in camouflage trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His arms were dark with grease and dirt, and he had an angry looking scratch on his left forearm. The red beret had seen better days, looking as if it were plastered to his head. The stubble on his chin was at least three days worth, and it seemed apparent that he also hadn’t washed during that time, with smears of grease and camouflage paint across his cheeks. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the jungle, and his appearance seemed very out of place in the cold, stark interview cell, hidden in the depths of Lubyanka. 

Roskov dropped the smile and closed the peep hole, before entering the room. The guard inside the cell stood to attention, and he gestured at him to stand at ease. 

Wesley was staring at a spot of ink on the table in front of him, and failed to acknowledge Roskov’s presence. Roskov ignored him too, playing the same game, turning his attention to the shallow tray on the corner of the table that contained Wesley’s possessions. He fingered through them, knives, guns, two hand grenades, ammo, more ammo. Nothing personal, nothing traceable. Pretty predictable, really - the man was obviously a pro. 

Roskov perched on the corner of the desk, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his cigarettes, which he pulled out and offered to Wesley. Wesley’s eyes flickered upwards, and Roskov suddenly found himself sinking into their intense, dark blue depths, long eyelashes seeming to pull him in. There was an imperceptible moment where time stood still, then Roskov pulled himself together, against all his natural urges, and tossed a cigarette onto the desk between them. He coughed, trying to ignore the tightening he felt in his groin, and pulled out another cigarette for himself, concentrating instead on lighting it. He held out the lighter to Wesley, who after a moment’s thought, picked up the cigarette and leaned forward into the flame. Roskov watched him closely as his lips pursed, and then inhaled. Then, the hand holding the lighter started to shake. Wesley’s eyes dropped to gaze first at the trembling fingers, and then at the definite bulge in Roskov’s trousers, and his lips curled into a smug grin. 

Abruptly, Roskov stood up and strode across the room, flinging open the door and slamming it closed behind him. He leant back against the cold wall outside the cell, breathing heavily. Damn! Chebrikov had been wrong. He wasn’t the right man for the job, not this job. He’d all but ruined it in the first two minutes. 

Wesley now had one over on him, he knew there was a weakness, which he would be sure to exploit. And why? Because after all this time, he still can’t resist a pair of sultry blue eyes? Frustrated, Roskov jerked his head backwards, the contact with the wall bringing comfort and clarity. 

It was an hour before he was ready to try again. 

*******

This time, he had Wesley’s complete attention. Roskov removed his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of the chair. Then slowly, deliberately, he folded back the cuffs of his shirt, three turns each side. Only then did he turn towards Wesley, his arms folded across his chest.

“Mr Wesley. You must know I have questions I need you to answer. ” Wesley looked up, slightly surprised. 

It was the first time the man had actually spoken, and he wasn’t ready for the rich tones of his Russian accent, mixed with the American style English. He wondered if the KGB taught English by showing their agents Hollywood movies. 

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said, firmly, staring straight ahead. Roskov noticed a slight change in Wesley since their initial meeting, the perspiration evident on his brow. He was certain this wasn’t as a result of the questioning, which after all, hadn’t even started yet, and inwardly he pondered the cause.

At that moment two men entered the room, another guard, and a doctor, who was carrying a metal tray with medical equipment arranged upon it. Roskov pulled the chair out from where it had been tucked under the table, and moved it to the far wall, where he sat down. He nodded his head towards the two guards who moved to stand either side of the prisoner. 

“Russia has changed since Perestroika,” said Roskov. “We have no need to treat our prisoners brutally, I am sure you are aware of that.” Roskov took his lighter out of his trouser pocket and played with it, turning it from end to end in his fingers. “Why are you in Russia?” he asked, in a quiet, level voice, continuing before Wesley could comment. “Who is paying you? Where are the rest of your group hidden?”

“I have....”

“Nothing to say to me? I realise this, of course. But still, you must answer my questions.” 

He nodded at the two guards, who immediately grabbed Wesley’s arms and shoulders and pushed him face down onto the table, knocking his red beret off in the process.

The Doctor approached, ignoring the struggles of the man being held, and with clinical efficiency, placed an intravenous line into the vein on his arm, and then reaching for the syringe, he quickly injected a substance into it. Almost immediately, Wesley’s struggles ceased, and he lay unconscious across the table top. 

The Doctor calmly turned away, checking the syringe as he did so. “Thiopental,” he said, in a matter of fact manner. “The reaction is immediate, however he should return to consciousness in ten minutes or so.”

Roskov stood up and approached Wesley. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly this stuff worked. He reached out and stroked the dark hair. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Should he be this hot?” he asked. 

The Doctor walked to the door and waited for the guard to open it for him. He looked back at Roskov’s question. “If he is hot, it is not because of the truth serum. I will return later to check on him, if you are still concerned.”

Roskov nodded. “Da, thank you Comrade. I can carry on from here.” He gestured to the remaining guard. “You can go, he will be no trouble from now on.”

********

Mumbling quietly, Wesley awoke, bringing his forearm closer so he could rest his head more comfortably.

Roskov had moved his chair close so he was now sitting next to his prisoner. “Robin,” he asked, gently, “can you hear me?”

“What?” Wesley lifted his head and tried to sit up, woozy, and confused. Roskov moved to help him, supporting him while he tried to sit upright in the chair. 

“Can you talk to me, Robin?” The use of his Christian name was intentional, meant to inspire confidence. 

Wesley tilted his head to one side as he tried to focus. “Talk to you? I can talk to you, yes.”

Roskov put his hand on Wesley’s arm. “Why are you in Moscow, Robin? Can you tell me?”

Seemingly drunk, Wesley slumped sideways, resting his head, trustingly, on Roskov’s shoulder. “Don’t feel well,” he muttered. 

“Trust me, you will feel better soon.” Roskov was good at this. He had employed the same techniques on many previous occasions. Wesley would tell him what he needed to know, it was only a matter of time, patience and persistence. “It is important you tell me why you are in Moscow. Can you remember?”

“Feel...tired.....head hurts.”

Roskov hesitated, putting his hand on Wesley’s neck, soothing him. Thiopental had side effects, naturally, but as time went by the more it dispersed through the subject’s system, which is why they awoke relatively quickly. So Wesley should be feeling better by now, relaxed, comfortable, willing to trust and talk. Instead he felt.....hot, sweaty, his skin clammy to the touch. Something wasn’t quite right. He cursed the Doctor, hoping he had got the dosage right. After all, the same drug was also used to kill. 

“Robin,” he persevered, “where have you come from?”

“Was...hot.”

“A hot country, where?”

Wesley turned his head slightly and mumbled into Roskov’s neck. “Burma.”

Roskov tried to lift Wesley up but he was a dead weight, seemingly determined to stay half collapsed on Roskov’s shoulder. 

Something stabbed at the back of Roskov’s mind. Wesley had travelled from Burma? 

“When did you arrive? Robin?”

There was a pause, then, “A week, I think I’ve been here a week.”

Roskov swallowed, and half closed his eyes. He almost didn’t want to ask any more, but he had to do it. To be sure.

“Who were you with, Robin? Tell me.”

“Er....most of us dead, I....I got away with China, and the girl.”

Roskov’s voice was a whisper now. He knew the name China. He should do. He had met the tall, enigmatic man only a week ago. “What girl? What was her name?”

“Anna. I came here with Anna.”

Roskov almost dropped him. Pulling himself together, he pushed Wesley away, forcing him to sit upright in the chair again. He got up and walked around the room, pacing the floor. Anna. Wesley had rescued Anastasia, Roskov’s own sister. She had been kidnapped during a year of travelling in the Far East, and despite using his own considerable contacts, he hadn’t been able to trace her. And then, only a week ago, she had arrived home, courtesy of a man called China, and without the family having to pay the ransom. 

My God. Wesley had got her out. He had got her home. 

He turned back to his prisoner, in time to see him slump forward, this time missing the desk completely and collapsing unconscious on the floor. He ran to his side, pressing his cool hand to a burning forehead. Panic hit the normally unflustered KGB agent and he called to the guard, barking out an order for him to get the Doctor, then turned back to the man, he now knew, he owed for the life of his sister. 

********

After reporting to Chebrikov that their prisoner was seriously ill and that he had therefore suspended the interview, Roskov made his way quickly to the Hospital wing of the Interrogation Centre. He had given his Commanding Officer only sketchy details, and certainly hadn’t told him anything about his sister. Roskov needed to keep things close to his chest until he had more facts. 

Finding Wesley’s room, he stood in the doorway, waiting for the Doctor as he gave instructions to his nursing team. The Doctor looked up, seeing him waiting, and came straight over. 

“How is he?” asked Roskov, trying not to sound too concerned.

“I am waiting for test results, but I believe it may be Malaria,” said the Doctor, making some more notes on his chart. 

“Malaria?” Roskov ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. “Is there treatment?”

“Of course, Comrade, this is not the dark ages. I will give him medication, he needs rest. The truth drug would not have helped, of course.”

Roskov refused to look guilty. They were all just doing their jobs, including Wesley. “When can I continue my interrogation?” Roskov was nervous. Not a condition he was particularly used to, and he didn’t like the feeling. 

“I will try not to interfere with your investigation, however this patient does present us with certain possibilities.”

Roskov frowned, unsure. “What do you mean?”

“I have never seen a patient with this combination of symptoms before. It is an opportunity I cannot ignore.” The Doctors tone was impersonal and cold. 

Roskov glanced across to the man on the bed. “You intend to experiment on him?”

“Comrade, this is 1987. I am not Dr Frankenstein. But I do see this as a chance to develop new treatments for this particular condition.”

“A person with Malaria who has been injected with truth serum.” 

“Correct.”

“Not a common complaint, Doctor.” Roskov tried very hard not to sound sarcastic. 

“Agreed.”

There was a dull silence as Roskov took in the meaning of the situation. He knew all the methods employed at Lubyanka. Wesley was expendable, and he couldn’t see him getting out of here any time soon, if at all. 

“Can I see him?”

“Yes, there is no reason why not.” The Doctor ushered the nurses out of the room and closed the door, leaving Roskov alone with his prisoner.

********

Roskov looked down at the bed. The Nurses had done an efficient job. They had stripped and cleaned their patient, and Roskov blushed as he recognised feelings of jealousy stirring within him at the thought. 

Wesley had been covered by a thin white sheet, and as Roskov checked him over, he froze when he saw the leather straps securing his wrists to the metal rails on both sides of the bed. Standard practice, true enough, but it still sent a shiver through him to see it. Wesley was mumbling, his head moving on the pillow, and Roskov leant down nearer to him, resting one arm on the metal bedstead. “Robin, tell me more about Anna.”

The long eyelashes fluttered, and Wesley turned a watery gaze in Roskov’s direction. “Anna....”

“Where did you find her?”

“On a mission, in Burma,” Wesley’s voice was a ragged whisper, and Roskov leant even closer to him in order to hear. “Destroyed opium, she was.....a prisoner.”

“Why, Robin? Why did you bring her to Moscow? Did you hope for payment?”

The eyelashes flickered again, and the blue eyes were lost to view as the lids closed. “Couldn’t.....leave her there......”

Roskov stood up, stunned. He had rescued her because he couldn’t leave her behind, and for no expected reward? Did people like him really exist in this world? He had forgotten, caught up in years of service in a world full of intrigue, double cross and triple think. Had fate pushed him into the path of a man of honour? 

At that moment, he made a decision. He owed this man, and as ruthless as he may appear, he always paid his debts. He couldn’t leave him here to rot in Lubyanka, while Doctors pumped him full of experimental drugs. 

He would have to get him out, and it would have to be fast.

********

That night Roskov set his plan into action. He changed in his office, pulling on warm clothes and a thick black overcoat. He collected together supplies, clothing, blankets, food, drink, and more importantly, the medicines he would need for Wesley. And ammunition, yes, it may come to that, and he made sure he had plenty, although he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Their destination should be remote and far enough away for them to remain hidden for as long as it took. And apart from a handful of trusted people, no-one knew about the dacha. Not even Chebrikov. 

He paused, looking over the bundles spread about the office. What was he doing? Could he really pull this off, without risking the wrath of the KGB descending on him? But then he thought of his sister, and how they had all been sure they would never see her again. And thanks to Wesley she had been returned, unharmed, to their desperate and grieving parents. Without further thought he collected together all the supplies and proceeded to carry them down to the rear entrance of the Lubyanka building, pushing through the door that led to the car park. He stowed everything away in the boot of the car, borrowed at short notice from his Father, then returned to the hospital wing, his movements purposeful and determined. 

********

The area was quiet. There were few patients, this being only a small hospital wing, provided for any injured and ill prisoners. He walked softly down to the room at the far end of the corridor, pausing outside to listen. Satisfied, he entered the room, looking at the prisoner lying there, sleeping comfortably. Quickly, he carried out his plan, pressing the alarm button hanging down by the bed. Then he hurried out of the room and ducked down behind a desk. He waited for the nursing staff to rush to the aid of the apparently stricken patient, then, making sure the coast was clear, he emerged from his hiding place. 

He ran quickly back down the central corridor and paused outside Wesley’s room, listening intently for any sound inside, his heart beating loud in his chest. There was nothing, and he quickly entered, taking his chance. Then he froze, staring in confusion. The bed was empty. Rumpled sheets showed it had been recently occupied, but now, it was empty. He frowned and stepped forward, touching a blood stain with enquiring fingers. Fresh, still sticky. What had happened here? 

He spun around as a noise from the corner of the room alerted him, just in time to see Wesley, fully dressed, and emerging from his hiding place behind the screen. Wesley launched himself at Roskov, going for his throat with both hands, but the courageous attack was destined for failure. Wesley had spent any energy reserves he may have built up, and with a gasp he fell to his knees, Roskov going down with him. 

“You fool!” exclaimed Roskov, “Why do you think I am here?” Without waiting for an answer he stood up, pulling Wesley upright, ignoring the groans of pain. He threw an arm around his waist, and ducked under his arm to take his weight. 

“What?” Wesley sounded understandably confused. 

“I am rescuing you, will you please trust me, and do as I say?” Roskov’s voice was clipped, and showed that any patience he previously had was now gone. 

“But.....why?”

“Anna.” Wesley blinked, comprehension hard, but getting there, slowly. “Now, come.”

Silently, the two men left the room, hurrying down the corridor as fast as Roskov could force Wesley to walk. The nursing staff, all fully occupied at the far end of the ward, did not notice them. It seemed impossible that they would get out without being seen, but sometimes the angels are on your side, and tonight, they were with Roskov. The long, rear staircase was hard on Wesley, but with Roskov’s support, they both managed to get to the car in one piece.

Roskov helped Wesley into the passenger seat and closed the door quietly, starting the car up and driving away, keeping the speed normal to avoid suspicion. 

And they were away. 

********

The four hours it took to drive to the dacha seemed to last forever. The heater in the old car wasn’t that great, and as soon as they were safely away from the suburbs of Moscow, Roskov stopped by the side of the road to retrieve a blanket from the boot. He covered Wesley with it, feeling the heat emanating from the fevered body. 

“Try to sleep, my friend,” he said, kindly, then he turned his attention back to the car. As they drove into the countryside the snowfall deepened, but Roskov wasn’t worried. He had driven in worse many times before, and he had a shovel to use if they got stuck. In fact, the darker it seemed, and the more snow there was, the more Roskov relaxed. 

Skilfully, he forged along the snow covered roads until he reached the tiny hamlet that was their destination. The lake twinkled brightly in the distance, the stars reflected on its icy surface. The dachas weren’t used in the winter, they were a retreat intended for the pleasures associated with good weather, and regretfully, he realised that the snow was so deep, he was going to have to abandon the car a hundred yards away from his little cabin. 

Leaving Wesley half asleep in the passenger seat, he collected all the supplies, and stomped his way through the deep snow to the cabin. It took him a moment to free the frozen lock, then he pushed the door open, dumping all the bundles on the floor. Still running on adrenaline, he trudged back to the car, flattening as much snow as possible on his way. 

Then, finally, he reached for Wesley, who was making the attempt to get him out of the car even more difficult by trying to help. 

“Let me help you, you stubborn fool,” muttered Roskov, as he all but carried his charge along the slippery path to the little dacha. 

********

And now, the real hard work started. Roskov refused to allow himself to grow tired, now was not the time. He found the oil lamp and lit it, then quickly made up the little bunk that ran along one wall of the room, covering it in blankets and quilts that he brought down from the tiny attic bedroom. Then he pulled Wesley up from where he had sat him, and helped him to lie down on the bunk. 

“Rest, while I light the fire,” he said, turning away, “now...firewood...,” and he went outside to collect what he could from the shed. 

Abruptly, Wesley was left alone, the flickering light from the oil lamp creating strange shapes in the darkness. He scrunched his eyes shut. Where was this place? He put his arm across his face, burying his eyes into his elbow. In his head, the last few days had taken on the appearance of a psychedelic dream, and now he was in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere, rescued by a KGB agent? He simply couldn’t take it in. 

The noise of the door slamming brought him out of his daydream and he lowered his arm, watching as Roskov set about lighting the fire. He soon had it crackling in the deep fireplace, and he filled the black metal kettle with water, setting it on the hearth to heat. 

He turned to Wesley, smiling. “We Russians, we like to....how you say...return to nature, yes? Basic, but comfortable. We will be okay here, no-one will find us.” He frowned, realising that Wesley was looking right through him, his eyes glazed. “And now, I check you over, I think.”

He took off his overcoat, laying it on the chair as he unpacked the medical supplies. Then he approached Wesley, laying his hand on his forehead. “Still burning, yes? Hmm.” Just for a moment Roskov doubted his abilities. He was no Doctor, or a nurse, come to that. Still, he had researched this thoroughly after he had received the Doctor’s diagnosis, and getting the fever down was the answer. Use the medication, keep him warm, generally look after him. Roskov shrugged. How hard could it be? He squinted in the low light as he checked the dosage on the Malaria tablets, then shook two into his hand.

“Here,” he said, putting his finger on Wesley’s bottom lip so that he opened his mouth. He dropped the tablets in between dry lips, then supported Wesley’s head and shoulders while he took the medication with a sip of bottled water, before helping him to lie back down again. Remembering the blood on the sheets, he carefully checked him over for signs of injury - he had obviously used some technique for getting himself out of the leather restraints, but in the process had cut the top of his left wrist. Roskov cleaned the wound and bandaged it. 

He hesitated when he realised Wesley was still wearing the camouflage gear that he had dressed himself in at the hospital; many days of dirt and sweat couldn’t be making it very comfortable. But it looked warm, and Wesley appeared too exhausted to make him undress now. So, he settled for covering him up with the quilt, and running his hand gently through his hair. “Sleep now, da?” he said, trying to sound reassuring, then, pulling the armchair up to the fire, he sat back and relaxed. 

********

He supposed he must have slept, because when he next opened his eyes, a grey dawn was tentatively lighting up the snowy landscape around the dacha. He checked his watch, 8.30am. That meant he had managed about three hours sleep, well, it was better than nothing, he thought. He stretched, and yawned wide, then remembered his guest. 

Wesley was burning up, the fever even worse than the previous night, if that were possible. He had obviously been thrashing about in the bed, throwing the bed covers off in an attempt to cool down. Roskov felt guilty. He should have been watching him, not dozing in front of the fire. He took another two tablets and pushed them between his patient’s lips, offering him water again to wash them down. 

Wesley swallowed the tablets, on reflex, but then coughed and rolled away again, in obvious discomfort. Roskov made a decision. The sweaty jungle clothes were going to have to go. He fumbled around in the bundles of equipment and supplies that were still stacked by the door, and located a fleecy cotton tracksuit, which he laid out on the chair near the fire to warm. Then he filled a bowl with hot water from the kettle and submerged a small towel.

Gently, with infinite care, he started to unfasten the buttons on Wesley’s camouflage shirt. He eased it away from the broad shoulders and pulled it off from each wrist, revealing tanned, muscular arms. He swallowed. Concentrate, he thought. Then he pulled off the heavy boots, again feeling guilty that he should have done so last night, as it would have made Wesley feel more comfortable. The socks were next, and then, the trousers. After unzipping the fly, he pulled them down onto Wesley’s hips, and then tugged from the ankles, trying to think about how ill his patient looked, and not how gorgeous. He found that simple task was proving more and more difficult by the minute. 

Finally, with a sigh of relief from Roskov, the unconscious man in his care was naked, save for a pair of black cotton briefs. Roskov wrung out the towel in the water, and started to carefully wash him down, wiping away the sweat from his skin, and rubbing the aching muscles to try to provide some relief from the pain. He continued with the bed bath right down to his toes, smiling as tried not tickle him as he washed his feet. He changed the bandage on his wrist, happy that the wound looked clean and closed. Then he reached for the tracksuit and began the process in reverse, slipping on the soft jogging bottoms, and pulling the loose top over his head. The arms proved a little awkward to manage, so he pulled the firm body upright and leaned it against his own as he fought with the sleeves. Finally, he lowered him gently back onto the bed, and covered him again with the blankets and quilt. 

He put his hand on Wesley’s forehead, annoyed that he had forgotten to bring a thermometer with him. Then, satisfied that his patient was sleeping a little more comfortably, he started to unpack and put the cabin in order. They were going to be here several days, and it would be better if things could be a little more organised. Plus, keeping busy prevented him from thinking about the strong and darkly attractive man, sleeping only a few feet away from him. Yes. Keeping busy was the answer, Roskov was sure of it. 

********

It seemed to Roskov that just when he had got used to dealing with one set of symptoms, another completely different set took over. For most of the morning Wesley had been incredibly hot, thrashing about in a disjointed sleep and throwing his covers off at every opportunity. Now, when Roskov checked him as the light of the afternoon was fading from the sky, he found him gathered up in a ball, shivering as if he had spent the night out in the snow. Roskov pulled the covers back over him, picking the quilt up from where it had fallen on the floor. He heaped the quilt on top of the shaking form, then turned back to stoke the fire again. When the tea was made, he brought a cup over to Wesley.

“No milk, my friend,” he said, as he tried to coax the patient into drinking, “you will have to take it the Russian way, hot, black and strong.” 

Wesley just curled into an even tighter ball, the shakes not receding for one moment.

Roskov put the cup down and touched an exposed, icy arm. How could a human being go from being so hot, to being so incredibly cold, in the space of an hour? He looked around him. The fire was blazing, the cabin was warm, his patient was covered in blankets, but still frozen. He sighed, not for the first time that day. 

“What I am about to do is for the good of my patient, not for me,” he said, knowing that Wesley was too out of it to hear him. He smiled, “Yes, I will keep trying to convince myself, someone will believe me, I am sure.” Then he slipped off his boots and climbed up on the bunk, lying next to Wesley and gathering him into his arms. Wesley groaned and moved into the embrace, soaking up Roskov’s offered heat. 

So, Roskov found himself in bed with a strong, courageous, and devastatingly attractive man, who would almost certainly tear him limb from limb if he were conscious. 

Life just wasn’t fair, sometimes. 

********

Somehow, despite Malaria, shivers and shakes, they both slept through until the early hours of the next morning. Wesley woke first, gradually aware of feeling more comfortable and safe than he had done in quite some time. Years, maybe, he thought to himself. He shifted over slightly, to give the man he was using as a pillow a little more room, and looked up, straight into clear, blue eyes. 

He coughed, feeling somewhat awkward. “Hi,” he said, quietly. 

“Dobry den,” replied Roskov, with a smile. “Kak ty sebya chuvstvuesh?”

“Er.....?”

“Izvineetye,” Roskov rubbed his hand across his face, waking properly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Roskov put a hand on Wesley’s forehead. “You feel better to me, not so hot, yes?” Wesley nodded. “You are hungry?”

“No.” The last thing Wesley wanted was food.

“But is good for you, and I am.” 

Roskov extracted himself from the bed and busied himself around the cabin, re-setting the fire, putting the kettle back on the hearth, and organising a saucepan of soup. 

They both then undertook a somewhat precarious visit to the outside toilet, resulting in Wesley collapsing back on the bunk afterwards, feeling as weak as a new born kitten. Roskov looked down at him, concern filling his eyes. “You are okay?”

“Yeah.” It was all he could manage to say. 

Roskov brought him a bowl of the soup, and perched on the bunk alongside him to eat his. 

Wesley took a small sip, and looked sideways at Roskov. “Who are you?” he asked, bluntly. 

Roskov laughed, throwing his head back. “Ah, my friend. I am Anna’s brother. You remember Anna?” 

Wesley nodded. “The girl we brought back from Burma.”

“Da. I am Pytor Roskov, a KGB agent. Possibly ex KGB, after this.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. 

“Why did you help me?”

“Would you not help a man who saved someone you love?”

Pain clouded Wesley’s eyes for a moment, as he thought about his son. He would have done anything for any man who might have been able to save him. He nodded, unable to speak, and took a sip of soup to cover the moment, not wanting Roskov to notice. 

Roskov, KGB trained and not one to miss anything, did notice, but chose not to comment. He reached to the shelf above them to retrieve the bottle of Malaria tablets, and gave two to Wesley, who obediently took them. It also did not pass Roskov by that this man seemed to trust him implicitly. He could have been giving him anything, yet he swallowed the tablets without question. It was an unusual feeling, to be so trusted, and he couldn’t help the smile that flickered across his lips. 

“What?” said Wesley, concerned he had done something wrong. 

“I have this feeling that you are a man of honour. The way you rescued my sister, your trust in others, your loyalty.”

“I’m only loyal to myself,” said Wesley, putting the soup bowl down and lying back in the bunk. 

“Now, perhaps, yes,” persevered Roskov, “but only because you have been hurt in some way. I am right?” 

Wesley answered by rolling over, turning his back to the questioner. Roskov placed a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there a moment or two before pulling the blanket back up. Then the Russian pulled another blanket around his own shoulders and went to sit in the armchair by the fire, watching the flames play over the logs. He stared into the firelight, trying to understand how this man had managed to get under his skin so easily. He knew that alarm bells should be ringing in his head by now, when instead, he felt quiet, reflective, and incredibly happy to be here. 

********

Evening came quickly, the days short in the depths of the Russian winter. Roskov stumbled back into the cabin with an arm full of kindling, dropping it all into the basket next to the fireplace. He brushed the snow from his coat and pulled the door shut. The weather was getting worse. This was good news, because it reduced the risk of them being located, but it also meant they would have to dig the car out when he came time to go. 

He looked across at his charge, who looked very far away from being ready to leave. He seemed feverish again, buried under a mound of quilts, and mumbling into the pillow. Roskov came closer, removing his coat and gloves, which he piled onto the chair.

“Michael.......must......save Michael......” Then Roskov realised, it wasn’t the fever, it was a nightmare. 

Without hesitation Roskov kicked off his boots and climbed once again onto the bunk, pulling Wesley into his arms. “Robin, wake up, my friend, it is just a dream.” With a start Wesley awoke, his eyes wide and staring. Roskov could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, as he held him close. 

“What....?” confusion filled Wesley’s teary eyes.

“It was a dream. You are safe here, da?”

“Er...da,” said Wesley, giving a sheepish grin. 

“Hey! A smile!” Roskov helped Wesley to sit up, and they both leaned back against the wall of the cabin, the quilts and blankets draped across their laps. After a moment or two of quiet, Roskov took a deep breath. His next question was going to be a gamble. “Robin......who is Michael?”

Wesley shot him a fierce look, which then subsided, when he realised the question hadn’t been asked in order to be cruel. “He was my son. He....died.”

“I am sorry.” Roskov looked at the floor, regretting that he had opened his mouth.

“It’s okay, I don’t talk about him much. Maybe I should.”

Roskov looked up at him. “You can talk to me, if it would help? I would like to hear about him.”

And so, they started to talk. Time stood still. The fire leaped in the grate, they ate bread, cheese and soup and drank tea, and they talked, and talked. 

Roskov talked about his life. His career choices, his family, and Anna. How desperate he had become when she disappeared, and how useless he felt when he couldn’t locate her. And he talked about Crawford, the American agent who he had fallen in love with, ten years earlier. The story of how Crawford had been kidnapped and tortured, purely as a lesson to Roskov for having a homosexual relationship with an American in 1970s Russia, brought tears to Wesley’s eyes, although he tried to pretend the smoke from the fire was the cause. Roskov had never truly recovered from having to let Crawford go, and had thrown himself into the job instead. His work had become his life, and nothing else now mattered. Ambitious, he was so near the top of the tree, there was really only one way to go, and that was down. And that scared him. His men were loyal, but he knew there was a bullet out there with his name on. And time was running out. 

And Wesley finally let someone in to his world. His marriage had been a sham, and it hadn’t taken his wife long to realise that they had something special in common; they both liked other men. But he had felt the pressure of being the eldest son, of having to conform, and he had taken the easy path – get married, and have kids. Only to discover his mistake, too late. He shared his grief at the loss of his son, how he had felt a failure because he hadn’t been able to prevent it. He had located and killed those responsible, but it didn’t take away the pain, or the guilt. And he explained how, although a mercenary, he had tried to only take on missions that had some ethical purpose behind them, like the destruction of opium factories. 

And they both talked about the future, if they had one, and what they wanted to do with it. They were amazed when they realised the similarities between them, how many goals they shared, places they wanted to see, things they still wanted to do. 

Eventually, Wesley’s eyes started to droop and Roskov felt a pang of guilt in keeping the still weak man up talking half the night. He helped him to lay down then curled around him, covering them both with the quilt. 

Wesley turned towards him, so close they were breathing the same air. “You realise we’ve done that thing the girls all talk about?”

“What is that?” whispered Roskov. 

“We’ve sat up all night, just talking. It’s supposed to be the sign of the perfect relationship.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” 

There was a pause. 

“And is it?” asked Roskov, “perfect?”

“Right now, yeah, I think it is.” Wesley pulled Roskov even closer to him, and brushed his lips tenderly against his. 

“And later?” said Roskov, his voice still a whisper.

“We’ll talk about that when we have to,” said Wesley, running his tongue along Roskov’s top lip. 

They didn’t do any more talking. 

********

Under the warmth of the duvet, the outside world melted away. Roskov, determined to be gentle, created a mutual feeling of trust as he pleasured Wesley using his hands and tongue. And Wesley, despite Roskov’s protestations that he didn’t have to, licked and sucked his Russian lover until he was gently pushed away. Then they lay against each other, Roskov’s hands grasping them both together as he brought them both to a tender, but powerful climax. 

Something amazing had happened to both men, in the dacha, in the midst of a Moscow winter. After years of hurt, of refusing to let others get near, their barriers had been lowered, and they had finally found someone they could really trust. Someone with whom they could, perhaps, create a future for them both. 

********

And so, after three days, the time had come. Wesley was stronger now, and the Malaria was under control. And Roskov knew one thing. If it was ever discovered that he had purposely let Wesley go, he would never be able to return to his life in Moscow. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. 

Wesley helped to tidy the little cabin, packing everything away ready to load the car, then he looked up, to see Roskov staring thoughtfully out of the window. Quietly, he joined him, slipping an arm around his waist as they both looked out over the lake in the distance. 

“This is harder than we both thought it would be,” he said, quietly. 

“Da.”

“Do you think they’ll believe you?”

Roskov turned half towards him, keeping the contact close. “That you kidnapped me and held me hostage? I will make them believe me.”

“I don’t like the thought of what might happen.”

“I will be fine, my friend. And you?”

“Drop me at the nearest railway station, and I’ll be away before you know it.”

Roskov nodded, sadly, and turned back to the window. “Then the time has come.”

Wesley pushed himself against Roskov and spoke into the back of his neck. “Da.”

Roskov started to speak again...”I....,” but Wesley interrupted him. 

“Don’t.”

As snowflakes once again started to fall, the two men picked up their belongings and locked up the dacha for the last time. 

********

There may be more awe inspiring views in the world, but at this moment, as Robin Wesley looked out over the vast frozen Swiss landscape, he couldn’t honestly think of one. Here he was, seated in the Piz Gloria restaurant that he had last seen in a James Bond film, with the beautiful mountains of Switzerland laid out before him. The menu he had been given to peruse kindly highlighted key landmarks, and using the little map, he tried to pinpoint the Eiger amongst the peaks. He sipped at his cinnamon latte, deep in thought. It had been a long five years, and he counted himself very lucky to be here at all. He had lost count of the amount of times he had risked his life, and seen others, good friends, lose theirs. But it was all over now. That last job had given him a financial cushion suitable for his needs, and after clearing away all trace of his previous life, he had finally made that call. 

But he was greatly troubled by what he had discovered after finally making contact. The KGB have long memories, so it appears, and Roskov had not escaped unscathed. True, the shooting during the undercover operation was written off as a regrettable case of mistaken identity, but the accuracy of the shot to the knee, and the fact that Roskov would never work again as a result, left no reason for doubt. He had become a KGB target. After lengthy surgery and months of physiotherapy, Roskov had disappeared, and it had taken everything Wesley had to locate him again. 

His attention was drawn to the sound of a man with a Russian accent speaking to the Matre-de. He turned, and focussed on the entrance to the main part of the restaurant. Emotion flooded through him as he recognised the figure, hair now more silver than dark, and walking with the aid of a cane, each step obviously pain filled. 

He stood up, and took a step forward, his hand outstretched. He had come. The future now had meaning. 

The intrigue was finally over. 

Prologue

Life together was never going to be easy. Wesley sighed as he leaned on the counter top, waiting for the coffee machine to do its stuff. He’d taken refuge in the kitchen since being attacked by an explosive torrent of Russian swear words. 

It had been six months since they had been reunited, six months since he had once again been able to look into the eyes of the man he knew, without a shadow of doubt, was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. If only he could convince Roskov of that. Roskov’s debilitating injury was, in Wesley’s opinion, just something else they should be working together to overcome, like where they should live in order to avoid detection by the KGB, how their new home should be furnished and decorated, and even what they should cook for dinner. It was no more and no less than that. But Roskov seemed to see things differently. 

Wesley poured the coffee, his mind still mulling over the situation. He tried to imagine what it would be like if their situations were reversed, if he had been the one injured. And he simply couldn’t believe that he would react in the same way, with so much anger and bitterness and an apparent complete lack of faith in the future.

As he stirred in the cream and sugar a sound from the doorway alerted him that he was no longer alone. It had taken a long time for him to learn to react normally around Roskov, to stop himself from doing a 180, grabbing any weapon he could find and shooting anything that moved. Instead he was quite proud of how he calmly picked up his coffee and slowly turned around with it. 

Roskov had stopped in the doorway and was leaning heavily on his cane, allowing the wall to help prop him up. The two men looked at each other for a few moments and Wesley tried hard not to look how he felt – completely unsure of what Roskov’s next move would be. For a second or two it looked as though Roskov had come back for round two of the fight until, with an audible sigh, his shoulders drooped and he closed his eyes. 

“Robin, I am sorry,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. 

Wesley put his coffee cup down on the counter, instinctively realising that he might need two hands for what was about to happen. Sure enough, Roskov slumped, dropping his cane to the floor, and Wesley took two quick steps forward so that he could catch him. 

“Come on,” he said, somewhat gruffly, slipping under Roskov’s arm in order to take his weight as he manoeuvred him to the kitchen chair. He helped him to sit down and made sure he had recovered enough to sit unaided, before reaching to pick up the fallen cane and placing Roskov’s coffee cup on the table before him. Finally, he picked up his own cup and sat down opposite the somewhat dishevelled Russian. 

“What for?” he asked, his tone level, and almost as if the last minute hadn’t taken place.

Roskov blinked several times, then ran his hand across his face, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “My manner to you was… inappropriate. I apologise.”

“Pytor, it’s time for this to stop. Don’t you think?”

Roskov had a naturally pale complexion at the best of times but at this statement from Wesley his face turned almost pure white. “Th… this?” he stammered. “You wish to stop this?”

Realising his mistake Wesley reached across the table and grabbed hold of both of Roskov’s hands. “Not ‘this’, you silly sod. How can someone so clever be so bloody stupid? When are you going to believe me when I say I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you? I don’t mean ‘this’ should stop.” Wesley squeezed Roskov’s hands to demonstrate exactly what he meant by ‘this’.”

“Then what?” said Roskov, struggling to force the words out through the panic attack that was still threatening to develop.

Wesley took a deep breath. “This anger. This self loathing. This lack of belief. Listen to me while I repeat what I’ve said a hundred times before. I don’t care about your leg. I want to help with your physio. And I will never leave you. Not because of pity, but because I mean it when I say I believe we both love each other. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll go. But I don’t think I’m wrong.” 

Roskov’s eyes brimmed with tears and he blinked them several times, unable to wipe the tears away because of Wesley’s firm warm grip on both of his hands. 

“You are not wrong,” he managed to say. 

“Then trust me, Pytor. Haven’t we been through enough together? Please, trust me. It’s all I ask.”

“All?”

“Pretty much, yes. It starts with trust, and then once you have that you can have everything else. Everything I have. Everything I am. Is yours, and always will be.”

Still somewhat overcome, Roskov nodded and closed his eyes again, allowing one or two stray tears to make tracks down his cheeks before pulling a hand away from Wesley’s in order to wipe his sleeve across his face. 

“I do trust you,” he said, his accent even more pronounced than usual due to the emotion in his voice. “And I am yours in return.”

Wesley smiled, blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction that he had finally managed to get somewhere. “So,” he said. “Before you bit my head off, what exactly were you working on?”

Roskov blushed, colour returning to his cheeks. “Leg exercises.”

“And do you think these leg exercises are something that you might allow me to help you with?”

Roskov smiled back. “Da. Spaseeba.”

Wesley stood up and moved so that he could perch on the edge of the table, leaning in for a soft kiss he whispered against Roskov’s lips, “You’re very welcome.”


End file.
